


Four Out of Five

by Smushed



Series: Blinded [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Sherlock, Comforting, Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Good Soldier John, Love, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BOWTIEFALLS:<br/>prompt: Sherlock is blinded after a dangerous case. he falls into depression/insecurity (what good is a consulting detective who cannot see?) and John is there to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Out of Five

**Author's Note:**

> "The supposed enhanced tactile abilities have been studied at a greater degree and can be seen as early as days or even minutes following blindness" -Champoux

John heard the sound of smashing glass and promptly stood to move to the kitchen, Sherlock was beside the kettle, two mugs in pieces. He was just trying to make them a cup of tea, but his hand was trembling. He must have burnt himself.

"Don’t move, don’t-" John sighed, heart wrenching at the sight of Sherlock staring forwards, looking devastated. He tiptoed over the glass and gently lead Sherlock to a safer place to walk.

The detective didn’t respond, he just walked, with slight hesitation when approaching doorways, to his bedroom.

John cleaned the glass and made them both a fresh mug of tea. Perhaps he would have to be more aware for when Sherlock wanted one. He made them two mugs, but Sherlock didn’t answer his bedroom door, so John went inside anyway.Sherlock was curled up on his bed.

"Got us some tea-" He spoke quietly, as though Sherlock were delicate. 

"It’s fine." Sherlock sighed, John sat at the end of the bed until he felt Sherlock shuffle to sit up, he smiled before shuffling up himself to sit beside him. He picked up Sherlock’s hand and moved it to take the handle of his mug before reaching for his own.

 ”Cheers.” John hummed as he took a scalding sip. 

"You can go you know." Sherlock mumbled after a while.

"Didn’t mean to intrude, it’s just a cup of tea." John responded with some offence, before Sherlock rephrased.

"No, I mean, leave. The flat. Go from 221B. Mycroft can do something to sort out my burden." Sherlock’s voice became weak towards the end. John frowned, but he realised Sherlock couldn’t see it so he picked up the detective’s free hand and placed it on his face.

"That’s how amused I am, feel my old-arse wrinkles?" He laughed a little then, his smiling lips brushing Sherlock’s palm. "I’m not going anywhere." He pat Sherlock’s knee with a gentle squeeze and they finished their tea in companionable silence, Sherlock’s heart was in his throat. From the doctor’s altruistic tendencies, his selfless kindness or from his own deep rooted emotion surfacing, he wouldn’t know.

Sherlock struggled with many things, and the two became very tactile to accommodate these problems. John often had to assist Sherlock walking, so he allowed Sherlock to link his arm. How ironic, how Sherlock once rid John of his cane, and now John became the detective’s. He bought Sherlock a walking stick to help him outside, but inside the flat Sherlock refused to use it. John thought it was because Sherlock felt stupid, like he should know the flat already, but Sherlock knew it was this  _feeling._ The feeling that he was clinging to John. Holding onto the one person he truly cared about. He didn’t want him to go, but he also didn’t know how to make him stay.

He was a burden, sometime along the way, John will find a woman, a pretty woman who can tell John how handsome he is, who can tell John all the things Sherlock was too conceited and petulant to tell John when he could see. That John was perfect. So all he did use John for, was a crutch. He stopped speaking to him as much, pushing him away, perhaps John would be happier else where, no matter how much his heart ached.

He began to sleep a lot, or rather, feign sleep. John would sometimes come in and sit on the bed and read beside him, and Sherlock would crave him to move a few inches over, so their bodies were touching and it wasn’t this tantalising heat he could feel radiating from the good doctor. 

Eventually. John got the message. He stopped sitting with Sherlock, and focused on working at the clinic. He would always be home with Sherlock for a few hours each day, cooking and cleaning, making sure nothing can be accidentally broken or there wasn’t anything for Sherlock to trip over. John placed rows of cello-tape around the flat, perfectly 1ft away from the last, making them raised from the floor. This way, Sherlock could manoeuvre himself around the flat without any assistance, he counted 4 rows from his bedroom door to the doorway of the sitting room, 7 rows to the kitchen sink, 2 to the kettle, it was rather clever, and something burned in Sherlock. He needed to say thank you, but he couldn’t write very well yet, and nor could he bake or anything of the sort. So he swallowed his pride and text Mycroft using his phone for the blind, it read out loud his messages and had Braille buttons for texting. 

_Send an expensive bouquet of flowers to John’s work. Message: Thank you for everything, Yours, SH._ -SH

Mycroft responded, the mechanical voice read it aloud. 

_Of course, brother mine._ -MH

Sherlock was so grateful that Mycroft didn’t feel the need to tease him, but he was also annoyed because Mycroft was obviously treating him like he was an idiot, not the same smartarse little brother. He dismissed it, he would never win in this turmoil.

John received the bouquet, and he was completely astounded by how beautiful it was, but something panged in his chest when he realised Sherlock would never see what they looked like. He came home that evening to find Sherlock watching narrated television, which was a pleasant change to him lying in bed. 

"This narration is boring, I can’t deduce anything from narration. I need to see the television." He sighed, closing his eyes as he heard the rustle of the bouquet and the sound of John arranging the flowers into a vase. John didn’t respond, but he could hear the footsteps approaching him and a hand land on his curls, which made him jump. 

"Thank you, Sherlock," John murmured, and Sherlock swore he could feel the ghost of breath along his face. 

Sherlock got a shower and went to dress himself, it always took too long, always took his time, but he supposed that was how it was to be from now on. And it wasn’t like he could experiment, or attend crime scenes. He crawled into bed that night with that weight on his shoulders.

No more experimenting, no more crimes, he couldn’t even go out and sort himself out for drugs, and no one would do that  _for_ him. There was no way to quiet his mind, no way to numb it’s incessant ramblings, his deductions screaming for practice, mind-palace going to waste. A burden to John, with no real way to thank him, no real way for Sherlock to even tell John how his heart aches for him now more than ever. No way that he would ever admit to it either, why would he be the burden to John’s life? The blind friend who loves him, it would prevent John from moving on. The doctor was so kind that he wouldn’t move away from him for fear of guilt. He was a waste of life. He couldn’t do anything for himself. He curled in on himself, and didn’t realise he was crying until John came in the room.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” He asked, Sherlock sniffed but then stiffened and stayed quiet so that John would just leave. But of course John knew he had been crying.

He came into Sherlock’s room, and Sherlock expected him to stay above the covers like he usually does, but now he slipped underneath beside Sherlock. The detective couldn’t face him, he kept his head turned away. So John accomodated this, he slipped down so he was lying beside him, but broke all their boundaries they had silently arranged all this time. John was body to body with him, and his arm came and moved Sherlock’s head so that it was on his chest, and Sherlock felt it was bare. He choked a sob to prevent it sounding, and John’s hand came up to those curls and stroked them with care, tenderness, John could no doubt feel Sherlock’s tears on his chest. But all Sherlock’s mind could scream was “Don’t touch me if you don’t mean it.”

He hadn’t meant for it to come out. It wasn’t intentional, he was overly emotional and had been warned about sentiment. John’s hand stopped stroking his hair, and Sherlock felt his body tense. A moment of despair was welling up inside Sherlock as John moved. But all he did was come face to face with Sherlock, and press his body flush against his.

“I mean everything with you, Sherlock.” The detective could hear the nerves in his voice, the utter anxiety of John coming away from his comfort zone, the sound of him addressing something he wasn’t sure he should.

“Can I see you?” Sherlock asked after a long moment, “Please?” He heard John lick his lips, and settle his head on the pillow more comfortably, his throat clearing so he could speak.

“Yeah,” At the permission, his hands rose to touch John’s face. His left hand cupped John’s left cheek and jaw, settling there, thumb stroking. His right hand came to John’s face, fingertips tracing John’s nose, his brow, he felt John’s eyes flutter shut as his fingers ghosted over his eyes,

“I wish I could see you… I can in my dreams.” He admitted, mouth dry as he felt John shuffle closer, felt his friends hot breath on his face as he traced all of John’s creases, his jaw, and finally his lips, letting hiss index finger gently outline them before his thumb pressed against John’s lower lip. Without much will power to prevent himself, Sherlock had leaned forwards and let his lips rest against John’s. Let his slot beside his friends, soft and unmoving, both of them terrified of the outcome, and that was when John’s hand slipped through Sherlock’s hair, his other hand at the detective’s jaw and his mouth clasped over Sherlock’s.

The detective’s face was knotted as he felt his chest tighten, a warmth pooling in his stomach, the sound of their tender kiss rupturing the doubt in his mind. He kissed John back, and it grew deeper and more passionate, he kissed John and suddenly their mouths were open, panting into each other’s mouths, breath shaking but they did not relent. Their tongues met then, sliding, it was hot, wet- Sherlock felt John try to shuffle away and he pulled John back against him with his hand at his waist. He knew then, why John tried to get away from him. He felt John’s erection against his hip, and with a twist of his lower body John felt Sherlock’s.

“Are you sure?” John asked, Sherlock nodded, taking John’s hand and lacing their fingers, kissing each individual digit.

“Positive.” Sherlock breathed, their kisses began again and John took control, he climbed on top of Sherlock, straddling his hips as he continued to kiss him. “God,” Sherlock’s brow was knitted as he kissed John again. “I love you.” It was so quiet, barely audible, but Sherlock thought this was his only chance, he had to tell him, and hope that he heard him and that he didn’t mind. Hope that John wouldn’t be put off by that idea, hoped that he would at least play along with it. And he heard those words mirror back.

“I love you too, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s face scrunched once before he relaxed it. He wanted to cry, to rejoice, but he didn’t do either just lay there receiving gentle kisses from his flatmate.

John made love to Sherlock this evening. It took a long time, many hours of preparation, of getting to know their bodies without sight, hands roamed and touched. Sherlock tried to catalogue all of the sounds he could make John do depending on where his hands were, and he experienced every sensation he could possibly feel this night. His body was for John, and so was his mind, and all John did with both of them was hold him, hold his heart and his feelings, bring them both to orgasm, Sherlock had never felt so alive even without his sight. Especially without his sight. Just the feeling of John, the vibration of John’s voice, the smell of his hair and skin, the taste of his mouth and his sweat, it was intense, and Sherlock clung to the moment forever, as though it would escape him.

John was clinging to him, forearms against forearms, pinning Sherlock’s hands with a glorious pressure above his head, Sherlock’s legs around John’s waist, John’s mouth kissing his neck as they moved together. “Let go, I’ve got you, Sherlock. I’ve got you-”

 


End file.
